The Ashen Crown, the Lords of Madness, and the Queen of Death

You are Enoreth

Your memories as Enoreth snap suddenly into focus. You relax a little. A part of you- the Tinker part of you- had been afraid that you- the Enoreth part of you- had some awful secrets, awful cruel designs locked away hidden in his memories.

But you can see Enoreth clearly now. You can see Tinker- your life as Tinker- beside your life as Enoreth. When you hold those two lives together you see that they form a continuum. Even though you lost all your memories as Enoreth, your personality has remained much the same. You are driven by curiosity, your are brave, you are faithful to your friends, and you often been charitable, and you have never been cruel.

Perhaps Tinker is bolder, his life full of far more danger in a briefer span. Perhaps Tinker is a bit more directionless, unsure what he wants from this world. But that is unremarkable among one so young! Enoreth’s memories bring a sort of confidence in yourself, a feeling that after thousands of years of being, you know what life is about.

You remember creating the network of enchanted stones.

The first stone you enchanted was when you ended your stint as a librarian in Korranberg. Leaving was hard. You had young gnome students who looked up to you. But it seemed, with the death of Nim Alston Frumpkin, the only true friend you had there, it was time to move on.

There was this great stone just on the outskirts of the city. It was a beautiful thing, framed against the sunset as you made your way north. You thought, “Perhaps I will want to come back here.” So you decided to practice your magic upon it. You bound a complex, innovative spell to that stone that would allow you to create a link between it and another stone. There was no other stone at that time. The other stone would be wherever you ended up.

Where you ended up was in the mountains north of Korranberg in a ruined city that you would much later learn was Paluur Draal. At first it seemed abandoned, and so you named it the City of Enoreth upon the Mountain of Enoreth. Looking back on it now, it was a bit childish, or at least, naïve. Every mountain, even those seemingly abandoned, has a history of which you know not. You cannot simply place your name upon it.

But the name … stuck. At least, it became popular amongst the kobolds, who skulked about the ruins. You caught them attempting to steal from the workshop you were building in the centre of the city. You tried getting to know them the only way you knew how: by teaching. The kobolds, awed by your magic, soon began to worship you. The man of metal filled a void left by their former god, a dragon that the gnomes of Korranberg had slain. You did nothing to encourage the practice, but you didn’t discourage it either. They liked you, so it seemed harmless enough.

You enchanted your second stone in the heart of that city, just by the base of the tower that served as your workshop. It was there that you worked your greatest magicks. You studied yourself, the mystery of your own being, and took strides in replicating it. You created a number of people based on your own design: ultimately, working ones, though that took a long time. The kobolds worked the mines, providing you with the dragonshards that would serve as the hearts of the people you forged and the adamantium that would serve as their skin.

You remember also enchanting the other two stones. One by the ancient Word Bearer clan home southwest from here, where they settled after you lead them down from the caverns in the mountains near Paluur Draal. One by an orcish settlement up far northwest where you briefly studied druidic magic.

And you remember the ravens. It was in the workshops of Paluur Draal that you crafted the ravens- living spells, conjurations- crude imitations at first- but soon perfected, nearly indistinguishable from real ravens. You remember what they were for now. Their purpose was to serve as mobile spell platforms. Of course. A most important spell.

Fear grips you as you realize how long it has been since the last time you made any ravens. You built them to survive for centuries, but over time, they are destroyed by random misfortune or by their spells deteriorating. Many are likely behaving as erratically as Arasinya’s familiar and are not to be relied upon to work properly at all.

You must make more. Urgently. After all, it is the spell that keeps y o u alive. Mother needs you to take care of y o u r s e l f. If the workshop in Paluur Draal has not been destroyed, you could assemble more there.

But there is something that’s bothering you. Tinker you. Even with all of Enoreth’s memories available to you now, there are some things, just a few things, that are hard to think about. You try to recall more about the ravens and the spell they perform, how exactly it works, what it exactly it does. Or try to remember the faces and voices of the elves at shore, by the boat, at the beach, at the beginning of this all. But the thoughts just keep slipping from your mind like sand through your fingers at that beach long ago.

They can wait. Mysteries for another time.

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